


you're already gone

by ameliepoulain



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: First Kiss, Fix-It, M/M, Missing Scenes, Pining, Sharing a Bed, stupid teens and stupid old men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-11-28 00:20:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20957354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ameliepoulain/pseuds/ameliepoulain
Summary: You can never get enough,Robert Smith cries over the static, and Richie turns around wearing that dumb smile again.All Eddie can think is: soon, all this will be gone.





	you're already gone

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is 100% inspired by this hozier tweet:
>
>> Oh yeah things are shitty all over but that lingering 20 year knowledge of your old childhood friend's land-line number can only be credited to love's enduring nature
>> 
>> — Hozier (@Hozier) [January 25, 2018](https://twitter.com/Hozier/status/956567261044756480?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw)
> 
> thank you to allison, light of my life, for constantly inspiring me through our unhinged essay-length messages about these ridiculous old men in love 

Eddie remembers one thing with absolute clarity: terror. It pierces straight through the decades-thick cocoon of meds, therapy and denials, the feeling so intimate and familiar, it’s like being socked in the face by an old bully. 

The memories come back in shards. The glint of Bowers’ pocket knife; Hockstetter dribbling saliva down the neck of his shirt, licking his lips like a Tex Avery wolf. Patches of earth writhing with sowbugs, restaurant chairs coated in butt sweat, school-rooms blooming with dust and asbestos. 

He remembers the ancient elm near his house that Richie dared him and Bill to climb when they were eight—he’d been so small then, he couldn’t even see where the leaves ended and where the sky began. But he’d scaled the branches angry and fast, calling down: ‘I’m gonna fall! I’m gonna fall and fucking die! And it’s all your fault!’ as Richie howled with laughter.

Then, there’s the Clown, long claws wringing Eddie’s neck, hot breath billowing from his maw as Eddie counted rows and rows of teeth. He’d expected Pennywise to smell like his diet of tiny kids or, at the very least, like the blazing infernos of hell. Instead, his breath was sweet, with sickening daffodil notes—exactly like the perfume his Ma used to wear. 

Eddie rolls on his side in the lumpy Town House bed, pulls the covers to his chin. The dim lamp on the bedside table emits a steady glow. He reminds himself: I can see every corner, I’m safe here, there’s light. But no, that’s not right, that thing _ is _the light.

Bev, eyes pure white, floating towards a pinwheel of rotting corpses.

“Fuck this,” Eddie mutters, throwing his covers off. He checks his phone: it’s 4:15am.

*

When he creeps downstairs, Richie is already at the bar, head slumped against the marble. The only sound is the ticking of a chintzy-looking grandfather clock, its glow-in-the-dark hands moving slowly towards dawn.

Richie’s eyes are shut, every line in his face ironed out. Despite the hard planes of his cheekbones, he looks almost like the friend Eddie remembers, dark hair boyishly curled around his forehead.

“You alive, Rich?” Eddie asks. At his voice, Richie springs up as if someone jabbed him with a cattle prod, whiskey spilling from the glass he’s clutching. He pinches the bridge of his nose and clears his throat with a series of disgusting, phlegmy coughs. 

There he is.

“_Good_ _morning_, Edward. Here for the breakfast buffet?” Richie gives him a toothy smile and holds out his glass, which is still ridiculously full. “Have at it.”

“Dude, your drool is _ all _ over that. Get it away from me.”

“Aw, it’s nothing you haven’t experienced before.” A quick flash—Richie at seventeen, glasses askew, blinking down at him with his mouth open. Eddie must be looking at him funny Richie suddenly can’t get his words out fast enough: “We used to pass around ice cream tubs in summer, remember? By the last round, those things were, like, reservoirs for my liquids.”

Eddie recovers, shuddering. “Ugh. Please don’t say _ my liquids _ ever again.”

At that moment, Richie tries to get up and immediately pitches forward. Eddie rushes to catch him, single-handedly propping up his collection of oversized, gangly limbs. Groaning, Richie presses their cheeks together; Eddie feels the roughness of his stubble, the hard plastic of his glasses. The folds of Richie leather jacket emanate a strong scent—the Mapo tofu they had for dinner, cheap alcohol, puke. For some reason, none of this bothers Eddie at all.

“Richie,” he says, concerned, “take it easy, man. We’re meant to be figuring shit out tomorrow. Today. Whatever.”

“It’s called being a high-functioning alcoholic.” Richie pushes Eddie off him. “You don’t see me giving you shit about your sugar pills.” Swaying, he gropes his way behind the bar, begins to pour them glasses of bourbon. 

Eddie decides that Trashmouth grew up kind of stupid-looking. Those goggling, madcap eyes and the unwieldy Doc Brown hair, cobbled together with confusingly broad shoulders and a superhero jaw. How does a human look like this? But he can still feel his heart pounding in his chest, no matter how much he wills it to shut the hell up. 

“Ben and I watched some clips of your show on Youtube,” he says, when Richie slides his drink over to him.

“Geez, was this _ before _ being attacked by eyeballs and hearing about our violent deaths or after?”

“Before bed,” Eddie says flatly, sipping at his glass. “It was trippy as hell—finally realizing why this low-rate comedian always looked so fuckin’ familiar. Loved the IBS joke, by the way, that one felt real authentic.”

Richie snorts. “That was written by an intern, obviously. My bowels are pristine.”

“Please. You taking an explosive shit at a Red Lobster was the only believable thing we heard.”

“What the fuck do you know, dickface? The last time I saw your tiny ass, I was—I—” 

Richie cuts himself off, his eyebrows furrowing together in confusion. 

“Don’t remember, do you?” Eddie says, gentle. “Me neither. That’s why we stayed up ‘til one, listening to you make tit jokes. Everything up here,” he puts two fingers to his temple, “is totally busted. I keep seeing you from back then and I—I need to remind myself of who you are _ now_.” Suddenly flustered, Eddie feels the need to add: “Same goes for everyone else! Bev, Bill, Ben, Mike—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Richie says, caught between amusement and something inscrutable. “I’m remembering shit about you too.”

“Really? Like what?”

“Your old landline number.” 

Eddie’s breath stutters in his throat. Numbers slide through his head, memories of a voice distorted by static, comically deep and pleasant: _ Hello, is this Mrs Sonia Kaspbrak? I’m afraid I have some tragic news. The ship carrying the ten boxes of dildos you ordered from 1800-MYPERFECTFIT has capsized in the middle of the Atlantic due to high winds and freak lightning— _

“You’re fucking with me again, aren’t you?”

Richie gives off a weird, strangled laugh. Just as Eddie starts to panic, Rich flashes a huge grin, bringing his shoulders up in an over-the-top, cartoonish shrug.

Reaching over, he runs a big hand through Eddie’s hair, messing it up with vigour. “I think my organs are starting to shut down,” he yawns. “Night-night, Eddie Spaghetti. Fingers crossed we choke on our vomit and never wake up.”

_ Speak for yourself, _Eddie wants to fire back, but he can’t force the words out. 

He can’t even look at Richie’s retreating back without seeing double: remembering, in that very moment, the way he used to slouch his shoulders as a bratty teen. Eddie’s been dizzy all day, rammed with emotion after emotion, his mind a constant loop of: _ Stan, Stan, how could I forget Stan, how can he be gone _—

And beneath it all, that same feeling of terror—the lifelong awareness of disease, of death, of being alone, of himself. He feels as if someone has spun him around a thousand times and only now is he falling and falling.

*

That night, Eddie dreams of being seventeen again.

“I’d rather drink my own vomit than get into that fuckin’ death-trap,” he snaps, “I’m not kidding. It’s an explosion waiting to happen. The bumper is _ literally _hanging off, like, where the hell did you even find this sardine can—I can’t believe you bought the first thing you laid your eyes on, of course you did, you’re a fucking idiot, you didn’t even check—”

“Shhhhh, don’t listen to him, baby,” Richie says, stroking his steering wheel of his ‘60s Mercury Cougar, “He’s being chickenshit, like always.”

“Why can’t we _ bike _to the station? It’s much safer and only takes twenty minutes—” 

“I’m sick of this,” Stan snaps. He leans out of the backseat window and drags Eddie closer by the shirt. “Get in the car. We’re going to be late and Bill’s totally wigging out.”

“I–I’m not wigging out,” Bill says, in a too-calm voice. Sitting in the passenger seat, his back is ramrod straight, eyes glazed. “I’m good. Very happy. Seeing Bev–Beverly—again will be nice. So nice.”

“Mother of _ God_,” Richie groans, “If I ever get this pussy-whipped, please shoot me right in the face.”

“I’ll shoot you now,” Eddie says, dodging the thick currents black smoke billowing from the exhaust. Reluctantly, he walks to the other side of the car and slides into the seat behind Richie. The door hangs slightly off its hinges as he tries to wrangle it shut, rust eating away at the blue paint. Juddering to life, the Cougar lurches forward with a wail, as if crying: no more, please no more. 

Two seconds in, Eddie is kicking hard at Richie’s seat. “Hey moron,” he snaps, “where’s my seatbelt?”

“That one’s always jammed, you gotta rummage around to find it,” Richie says, helpfully. “Maybe try looking up your mom’s vagina.”

Before Eddie can reel his leg back and score another hit, Stan slaps his leg away. “You realize that kicking the person driving increases our chances of dying right?”

“Ooh, imagine getting wasted by Stanley Urine,” Richie laughs, stamping harder on the accelerator as they hit the open road. This shuts Eddie up, all his blood rushing to his cheeks.

When they pass the town square, Friday I’m In Love begins to crackle over the radio. Richie rolls down his window down so the citizens of Derry can hear his terrible, off-key bungling of the chorus, his mop of dark hair whipping around in the wind. Eddie listens to the hoarseness of his laugh, to the way it grows more and more infectious as the song soars. 

“It's Friday, I'm in love! Saturday, wait! And Sunday something-something-too-late!” Richie screams, as Bill and Stan shake their heads, grinning. The car rumbles past The Standpipe, across the Kissing Bridge and its jumble of initials; by the time it reaches the green expanse of poison oaks and grassy knolls at the town border, Bill and Stan have joined in, the space filled with noise and light. Richie swivels his head around and smiles directly at Eddie, mouths: “come on, asshole.”

But Eddie stays silent. Deep down, he knows he’s been especially dickish this summer. Arguing with Richie used be fun but every interaction they’ve had lately has filled Eddie with a deep, reckless anger he doesn’t fully get.

It’s gotten worse ever since Richie announced his family’s plan to move to California next month.

The rest of high school without Richie—it’s unimaginable. A year without him stealing bites of Eddie’s sundaes and teasing Bill for doodling Bev in the margins of his Math textbook; a year without Richie lying under the Cougar with Mike, patching it up with hawked parts from the junkyard. He won’t be graduating with them. Or joining them on their grand plans to skip prom, drive to the lake house near the White Mountains and get totally wasted—a final fuck you to Derry, planned when they were all together.

_You can never get enough, _ Robert Smith cries over the static, and Richie turns around wearing that dumb smile again.

All Eddie can think is: soon, all this will be gone.

*

The car reaches the station, grinding to a halt with a final, monstrous whine. Sweat beads at Eddie’s temple as they step out into the thick curtain of heat. The railroad tracks seem to shimmer; the sign reading “DERRY” growing hazier the more they squint.

_ “Shoebill to Albatross,” _ Mike’s voice crackles over Stan’s walkie-talkie, _ “Shoebill to Albatross. Shoebill has a box of jam donuts waiting for you all at the Clubhouse, copy.” _

“Birds have landed at the station and are eager to return, copy,” Stan replies, giddy, as Richie and Eddie shoot each other incredulous looks. Since Ben moved to Iowa last year, Stan and Mike have been competing to fill the role of pre-eminent Derry know-it-all. The Clubhouse is now always packed to the teeth with books on town history and geography; the two of them constantly drawing and redrawing battle strategies on butcher’s paper for future use. They’ve even taken up bird watching in the Barrens, searching for the allegedly extinct Labrador duck.

(“If we grab a single picture of that thing, we score like 15K,” Mike announced once. “We could buy so much with that! A new radio for the clubhouse, bear traps for the Clown, tickets to get the hell out of here.” 

Mike had this supernatural ability to convince people to do things—maybe it was his dependability or the matinee idol smile, but soon enough, Richie, Bill and Eddie were decked out in camo gear, with binoculars and a film camera stolen from Richie’s sister. Their ambitious day trip was cut short when Richie immediately fractured his ankle walking into an animal trap.

“This is what I fuckin’ get for participating in The Great American Nerd-Off,” he whined, while Eddie wrapped a careful hand around his foot and tried to make a splint from the contents of his first fanny pack.

Through the whole ordeal, Richie was redder than Eddie had ever seen him.) 

Beverly’s train is ten minutes late. The glare of the sun is starting to get to Eddie, his polo sticking to his collarbones. Bill paces back and forth on the platform, intermittently kicking up clumps of shrivelled leaves and loose bits of tar. “What if she doesn’t remember us?” he asks.

“No way could she forget this handsome mug,” Richie says, patting his cheek.

But Bill still looks unconvinced. The first time they tried to call Bev, all crouched around the phone at the Denborough’s, they had gotten the nasty shock that she didn’t remember. Didn’t remember the gallons of blood in her sink, the Clown, any of them. It had taken Bill’s stuttering panic, Richie and Eddie’s bickering, Stan’s panicked no-no-nos and Ben’s soulful rendition of _ Please Don’t Go Girl _before Bev was laughing down the line, exclaiming: “how could I forget you Losers?”

Even thousands of miles away, Pennywise can still fuck with them. Ever since that call, Bill and Ben have called Bev every second day, and they’ve all taken to writing her individual letters with updates on school gossip, their lives. After Ben left—snot leaking from his nose as they clung to him in front of the moving truck, refusing to let go—they’ve started writing to him too. 

“She’ll remember us,” Eddie says nervously. “She has to.” Feeling the oncoming wheeze in his throat, he gropes for his puffer, takes a few pulls. He can _ feel _ Richie giving him the stink eye, the way he does every time he spots Eddie taking placebos. 

Eddie’s only managed to quit taking HydrOx—everything else is tougher to kick. Knowing his pills are fake has only trapped him in a constant state of anxiety and shame, never knowing what’s real and what isn’t.

Richie eventually breaks. “Dude, why are you still taking that shit?”

“It helps me last longer in bed with your mother.”

“Aw, you’re so cute when you’re mad.” Richie leans closer and gives his cheek a firm pinch. Eddie’s heart immediately betrays him, bounding around in his ribcage. “Sorry about the car thing, ‘kay? I promise we’ll take yours next time and I won’t say a thing, even when you reverse-park like a grandma on Ambien.”

Eddie is thinking of a comeback when, suddenly, he hears the mechanical groan of a train pulling into the station. Everyone around him is muttering, “_ohmigod, ohmigod” _as Bev steps off the train with her giant duffel bag, daylight shining off her shock of orange hair.

“Who died?” she asks, grin wide, and they’re all barrelling into her arms in a second flat, whooping and leaping with joy. Disentangling herself, Bev begins to give them individual hugs, her eyes wet. When she gets to Eddie, she smooths his fringe back a little, says: “Eds, when the hell did you outgrow me? I’ve missed way too much.”

*

“Eddie,” a voice is saying, all gentle. The cadence is nice; warm and husky like the first taste of coffee on a mild summer’s morning. “Eddie, it’s time to get up.”

Eddie rubs the grit away from his eyes and sees the angular lines of Beverly’s face looming over him; her kind, crinkle-eyed smile. She looks like she’s holding back a laugh. “You were saying my name in your sleep,” she says, raising an eyebrow.

“Uh—no it wasn’t like—,” Eddie says, voice pitching higher. He tries to sit up and hears his back creak like a fossilised see-saw. Yep, he definitely isn’t a teenager anymore. “I was dreaming about that time you came home before senior year.”

“Oh! A nice memory, then,” Bev says and Eddie nods, smiling. “That one came back to me the second I saw everyone sitting together. Y’know, I think that was maybe the happiest moment of my life.” 

“Or maybe we feel things harder when we’re kids.”

“Yeah, who can say?” Bev agrees, suddenly sombre. Eddie curses himself: why did he have to go ruin the moment?

“Everyone’s ready to head to the Barrens and look for clues,” she soldiers on. “We just managed to wake Rich up, _ finally_. Ben was two seconds away from getting an air horn.”

Pulling on his cardigan, Eddie takes a moment before following Bev out. He reaches into his pocket, rummages for his phone. He switches it on. Immediately, there’s a vicious barrage of sound and light—50 missed calls from Myra; panicked messages from Robert, who’s covering for him at work; a deluge of Google Calendar reminders about his pill regimen, the strategy meetings he’d been planning for the past month. 

His throat begins to clog. Eddie switches the thing off.

*

Downstairs, Richie is leaning against the bannister, arguing with Bill about the name of a girl from high school who they’d both been obsessed with. Eddie suspects Richie’s infatuation stemmed from the fact the girl led riding trails, and talked about the horses as if they were her actual clients, as in: _ Bramble was feeling a little under the weather, so we decided to push back our session today. _ It was a goldmine of inspiration for some of his best impressions, which he always did within earshot of her_, _because Richie was Richie.

“Do you think someone called Ruth would get on a fucking horse? Get a grip, William.”

“I dunno, _ Dick, _sounds like you pulled 'Brandi' out of a gir–girly magazine—”

“People were called Brandi then! There were five Brandis in our grade!”

Eddie tries to awkwardly waddle past but Richie grasps his shoulder tight. There it is again—the irritating rhythm of the heart, the heat of Richie’s skin through the thin fleece of Eddie’s cardigan. “C’mon, Eddie K, settle this for us. What was the name of that babe two grades above? The blonde with the kinky riding crop.”

“Ruth,” Eddie says, even though he has no idea. Bill claps him on the back, crowing with victory, as Richie mutters: “Can’t count on you for anything, can I?”

On their way to meet Mike, Eddie trails behind slightly, watching Bill laugh at Richie’s jokes. There was always something so easy-going and simple about their friendship, even when they got into terrible fights, or stared down certain death together in the Derry sewers. 

Back in elementary school, when it was just the three of them, Eddie used to wonder why they even bothered with him—they both seemed fearless, unafraid to mutter insults at the Bowers gang, even if it ended with their heads stuffed down toilet bowls. And as much as Richie loved to joke and whine and scamper away, if Bill was in the lurch, he’d be there in a heartbeat.

Meanwhile, Eddie was—well, he was Eddie.

As if sensing his mood, Richie turns a little, catches his eye. He slows his pace until they’re bumping shoulders. “What’s with the face? Don’t tell me you’re _ not _gagging for whatever shitshow Bozo has in store for us.”

“Yeah, wonder which one of my limbs he’s gonna snap this time.”

A dark look passes over Richie, like he’s only remembering their last trip to Neibolt now. They walk in silence for a while, Richie’s knuckles bumping against his, the feeling both electric and familiar. “Eds, I’ve been meaning to ask you something personal,” Rich says softly, “if that’s cool with you.” 

Eddie hesitates. He isn’t quite used to this newer version of Richie; the way bone-deep exhaustion seems to seep from his every pore. Eddie wonders what other things he’s been remembering.

“Of course,” he says, trying to sound encouraging. “What’s up, man?”

“Why don’t you wear those tiny little shorts anymore? Is your wife not a fan? I’ve been thinking about this a lot—”

“Oh fuck you, dude.”

“—because I think they would look even sexier on you now, especially those little rainbow ones that you needed a microscope to even _ see_—”

“_Shut up_, Richie,” Eddie says, fighting a smile, fighting the feeling of relief. 

*

What follows is the longest day of Eddie’s life.

The entire time, he keeps Stan’s shower cap balled up in shirt pocket, directly over his heart. A talisman. _ It’s so you don’t get spiders in your hair while you’re down here, _Stan said, because he was always the practical one, the one who knew how to protect them best.

Eddie clings onto that memory when he faces the grimy cellar beneath the pharmacy. It takes him through the iodine stench of blood, the syringes, the sound of his Ma in danger; takes him through the Leper, the black broth of its vomit spurting up Eddie’s nose, into his mouth. It reminds him to be sensible, to see things as they really are.

For almost two decades, Eddie has retreated: into a mind-numbing job, into a home that gets disinfected daily, into a marriage where his wife convinces him every second she gets that without her, he’ll die sick and alone.

Pennywise made him forget his illness was false; that he once had people who loved him, without conditions.

But now, he’s seeing clearly.

He’s a fucking bully_, _Eddie thinks as he presses harder and harder on the Leper’s—It’s—throat, just a small, pathetic bully like the ones he’d been facing since he learnt to walk; like every overcompensating dipshit that brought his friends closer together, made them stronger.

By the time he’s pulling Bowers’ knife out his cheek, Eddie is hysterical with adrenaline. For the first time, he feels like he knows what’s real.

*

“Holy shit, what happened to _ you_?”

When Richie quickly touches his wound, his hand isn’t gentle. Eddie feels his cheek throb as his half-assed, blood-soaked bandage sticks to Richie’s palm. But he so unbelievably giddy with fear and anticipation that he has to stop himself from grinning like a bedlam patient. 

“Oh, that! It’s nothing! Bowers stabbed me in the face.”

“He _ stabbed you in the_—the fuck, dude, how is that nothing?” Richie is huffing out his words—they both are, as they sprint to the Neibolt house with the others, hoping they aren’t too late, that Bill hasn’t already done something brave or stupid or both.

“I mean, it’ll probably get infected and I’ll get Cellulitis and die, but who cares. We’re about to fight a cosmic monster and die even more horribly! Also, I pulled it out and stabbed the fucker right back.”

He hates how the last part comes out sounding like a kid showing his mommy his straight-A report card.

“Eds, that’s the sickest thing I’ve ever fuckin’ heard,” Richie says sincerely, like he didn’t just axe murder the dude. “Jesus, I wish I coulda seen that dickhole’s face—if we survive tonight, we’re getting you on _ Homicide Hunter.” _

They grin stupidly at each other. Richie looks a mess: he’s breathing raggedly as he runs, sweat-drenched hair plastered to his forehead, puke staining the collar of his shirt and the sleeves of his jacket. He hasn’t shaved in several days and his eyes look crazed; brown orbs in the shadowy nightfall.

But Eddie thinks he’s beautiful.

It’s a ridiculous thought. He hasn’t seen the guy in more than twenty years, or even spoken to him much the past two days. He hasn’t even let himself think about _ men _being beautiful in all this time. So, he decides not to give a shit for once. 

When they find Bill, quaking and tear-streaked, and follow him into the black void of the well house, Eddie realizes that he remembers everything.

*

The Leper, its boil-ridden skin leaking pus onto Eddie; Pennywise, its claws sinking into his flesh; his Ma, with her lies, and curfews and endless syrups and medicines—none of it scares Eddie like the thought of Richie forgetting him.

It’s all he can think about the night before Rich leaves for California. The six of them are sleeping over at the Clubhouse, armed with cards, gobstoppers, Bud Lights and a half-functioning Philco radio salvaged from the metal heap. Take That is playing on full blast, the portable fan click-click-clicking, as they crouch around the latest letter from Ben. He couldn’t make it here this summer because—ironically—he’s on vacation with his family in L.A. 

“_Even after everything we’ve been through, the next year will be scary, full of so many new places and people,” _ Bev reads. “_But knowing you, Rich, you’ll never fail to find something funny in a strange situation, and you’ll always have us to help you remember the best parts of home._” She pauses, a fond smile tugging at her lips. “Oh, Ben.”

“I’m moved to tears,” Richie says. “But not one mention of how hot Californian chicks are? It’s like he doesn’t even know me.” 

He lets out a deafening burp, one that smells like noxious mixture of beer and Cheetos. They all hold their noses, groaning, as Richie cackles.

“Cut Ben some slack,” Stan deadpans, “It probably took all his energy thinking up a single nice thing to say about you.”

“Love ya too, Stanley. What am I gonna do without you always grumbling at me to get off your lawn?” 

Stanley rolls his eyes, all the way back, but he lets Richie creep close and plant a wet one on his cheek. “God, you’re disgusting,” he says.

“I’m expecting _ all _ of you to write to me like you’re my sexed-up army wives, eager for my return. That means you, Edwina—I want detailed updates on your butter-churning and casserole-making.”

Eddie makes a non-committal sound from behind the Uncanny X-Men comic he isn’t reading. That last bit was a dig at his recent interest in cooking, which Richie thinks is funniest thing in the world, even though he helped Eddie carry four boxes of mushrooms and tomatoes home last week, and listened to him explain sautéing for thirty minutes. When he looks up from Colossus’ steel abs, he sees Richie frowning at him.

He’s been near-silent the whole night, and it’s starting to get weird: even Stan’s been giving him looks. Eddie can’t explain it himself—he went to such great lengths to get here. His mom had dead bolted his bedroom door from the outside, forbidding him to see _ his filthy friends _ so, naturally, he cut a hole in his window’s fly-screen with his sewing scissors, then rappelled down the side of his house with rolled-up bedsheets.

And yet, here he is, trying his best to seem engrossed in a comic he doesn’t even really like. 

X-Men was always Richie’s thing.

“Alright Rich, spill it, did you really get to second base with Suzie Carlson in the backseat of the Cougar or what—” Eddie hears Bev ask.

“Oh come the fuck on, not this again—”

“—because I’ve been hearing things and there’s no way they can be true.”

“If there’s no way then how come you’re on my case, Nancy Drew?”

“Your silence has been super weird,” Bill chimes in, eyebrows knitted together, like he’s mulling over an unsolved murder. “It’s not na–natural.”

“Yeah, don’t make me whip the bottle out.” Bev materialises an empty glass bottle, grinning wickedly. On cue, Richie makes a noise like a deflating whoopee cushion. “Fuck no, we’re _ not _playing Truth or Dare, not after last time. I can still taste those fucking cicadas.”

“You didn’t have to eat them, man,” laughs Mike, at the same time Stan says: “Just pick truth for once, duh.”

As his friends continue hooting and yakking, Eddie feels his heart sink. He’s starting to think something _ did _happen between Richie and Suzie, judging by the way Rich gets pink and splutters whenever anyone brings it up. In the past year, Richie’s noodle legs have grown an unfair amount. He’s also somehow developed a half-decent jawline—girls look at him different now, giggling when he walks past instead of pretending to hurl.

(“Can he still be a Loser if he has _ senior girls _after him?” Eddie had grumbled.

“For sure. They still think he’s weird and gross,” Stan said. “It’s like wanting to fuck an ewok instead of Han Solo. It’s shameful.”)

Eddie feels a strong, comforting arm sling around his shoulder. Mike. “You okay, Eds? You’ve been quiet.” 

Only from Mike can those words sound concerned instead of relieved. “I’m fine!” Eddie says, “I’m totally great!”

He can’t help himself: he looks up again. As usual, Rich is monopolising the hammock like a dipshit, legs sprawled out, cans of beer and OJ-stained comics cradled against him. His shirt rides up as he clutches his stomach; he’s wearing the E.T. shirt from their communal tee pile, the one Eddie donated because it was too baggy around his shoulders.

He looks dumb—so dumb—he doesn’t even like E.T. and only watched it because Eddie shoved it in the VCR when he slept over at the Tozier’s, before Richie could put on Faces of Death_. _ He had ruined the whole experience, poking Eddie with his forefinger and doing dumb alien voices the whole time.

(“This is what your mom sounded like last night,” Richie had whispered. “_I’ll be riiiiight here.” _He pointed directly at his dick.) 

“I think I’m having an episode,” Eddie puffs out. “I need some air.”

Eddie ignores Mike’s paternal stare and everyone’s chorus of “Eds, where are you going?”

He climbs out of the hatch, into the humid night air.

*

His stomach begins to ache as he shakes his inhaler. Can you get a stomach ulcer from breathing in fake drugs? He hopes not. Bugs and nocturnal animals are trilling in the trees, the darkness around him full of teeth. Eddie screws his eyes shut for a moment.

Eddie catalogues the amount of deadly animals in Maine: lynxes, coyotes, garter snakes, rabid bobcats. Maybe one of them will eat him and put him out of his misery. Anything beats going back inside.

The Barrens calls his bluff: hot wind begins to whirl through the leaves around him, flocks of bats bursting from the branches. Then, suddenly: a low, guttural growling—what sounds like an honest-to-god cougar.

“Aaaah, shit, shit, shit,” Eddie says, scrambling closer to the door of the Clubhouse. “This is not happening right now, this cannot be hap—”

The growls intensify, transitioning into feral hissing, and Eddie is ready to lie down in the dirt and curl into a ball when, suddenly, Richie jumps out from behind the trunk of a tree, laughing so hard he’s crying.

“Fuck, dude, your _ face. _I’m about to piss myself.”

“WHATTHEFUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU.” Eddie pushes at him so forcefully, he almost trips. “That _ so _ wasn’t funny—that wasn’t—I think I’m going into cardiac arrest; I think I’m dying.”

“Oh, it was definitely funny,” Richie says, wheezing now. He throws his arms up: "_Aaaaah," _he mimics, and starts to wheeze harder. 

“I’m going to kill you, fucktard. I’m about shove this—,” he brandishes his inhaler, “—so far down your throat you shit plastic for a week.”

“Great! You’ll be doing yourself a service. Can’t believe it’s my last night and you’re out here alone, puffing your bullshit asthma juice.”

_ My last night. _The fight goes out of Eddie. He storms deeper into the woods and braces his arm against the trunk of tree, waiting for his heart to slow. Richie follows him, grin slipping. “Hey. Hey, come on, Eds. You gotta admit I’m getting pretty good.”

He _ is _ getting good—the voices Rich did when they were kids were all cheesy and horrible, but now he’s nailed a host of impressions: five different animals, Donald Duck, Frank N Furter and various British geezers on PBS. _ He’ll probably be famous one day, _ Eddie thinks. _ L.A. is going to love him. _

At his lack of response, Richie makes a frustrated noise. “Seriously, Eddie, why have you been so pissed off at me?”

Richie is coming closer, too close. Staring down at Eddie, he looks owlish and defenceless behind his thick glasses.

“What kinda question is that?” Eddie asks. “When am I _ not _ pissed off at you?” 

“You know what I mean!” Another exasperated exhale. “You’re never _ mad _at me, not really, but this whole week, you haven’t so much as looked my way. I’ve been trying to figure out what I did—”

He cuts himself off and looks away, embarrassed. “I look at you,” Eddie says weakly, but Richie is already chewing his lip to a pulp. A tell-tale sign that he’s hurt.

Seeing him like this knocks something loose in Eddie. “You didn’t _ do _anything, okay? I’m just—” Embarrassingly, tears begin to prick at Eddie’s eyes. He rids them hastily with a few controlled blinks. “I’m not ready for all this to be over.”

Richie looks confused. “You’re not ready for all _ what _ to be over?”

“This!” Eddie says, annoyed. He frantically gestures back and forth in the small space between their bodies. “Our friendship! Because you’re ditching us forever! You’ll have all these new friends and a hot surfer girlfriend and forget all about Derry, about me—”

“A _ hot surfer girlfriend? _Eddie, what—”

“—and I’ll have to look at your terrible hair on TV every night because _ obviously _you’ll be a huge fuckin’ star or something, even though you aren’t funny or interesting at all—”

“Eds, Eds, I’m begging you to shut it,” Richie says, his grin back in full force, his hand finding Eddie’s shoulder. “Chrissake, you’re a freak.”

“Gee, thanks, I feel so much better.”

“You’re off your gourd. I can forget everyone here—even Stan and Billy—but how the hell can I forget you?” Richie struggles to stave off a laugh. “We used to take baths together when we were three, dude! I’ve seen you naked. That shit traumatises someone for life.”

“Actually, go ahead and forget, I want you to. You’re seriously the _ most _ annoying person on the planet—”

“You’re my best friend, dumbass.” Rich says it with finality, his stare intense. “I’m not even a full person without you, alright?”

Abruptly, Eddie shuts up.

“Now, let’s _ please _ talk about something less stupid.”

The dam breaks: tension floods out of his body and he’s hyper-aware that Richie’s hand hasn’t moved, thumb bumping up against the pulse in his neck. Richie is smiling a little; one of his tiny, private smiles that makes Eddie’s limbs feel like jello.

In the night, Richie’s eyes look dark, they look warm.

Eddie doesn’t realize what he’s doing until he’s tipping forward, right as Rich is opening his mouth, ready for another joke. Eddie’s aiming for Richie’s lips—_why _ was he aiming for that, has he been _ possessed_—but he times it horribly, horribly wrong. Their noses collide, hard, and Eddie hears the sharp crunch of bone. Warm blood spills onto his lips, runs into his mouth.

Richie’s blood.

“_Ow, ow, ow, Jesus H. Christ, _my goddamn—“

*

“—my goddamn head. Ugh.” Richie is flat on his back, blinking rapidly, the angles of his face lit by the sputtering blue of the Pennywise’s deadlights. Crouching over him, Eddie does a quick assessment of the damage: minor head wound, cracked glasses, probably some bruised elbows. Pure joy undulates through Eddie in waves: Richie’s alive, he’s alive. He failed him before but this time he did it, he _ saved _ him.

“Hey, Rich, Richie. I think I got him, man!” Richie’s expression is awed, like he doesn’t know whether to laugh or throw up. Eddie has the weird urge to paw at both his cheeks, his ash-streaked forehead, to make sure he’s really here. “I did it, I killed—”

Suddenly, Richie’s gaze snaps into focus. “_Eddie, move.” _

Richie shoves him off with all his strength, knocking the wind out of him; Eddie lands rough, jagged gravel scraping against his side. He doesn’t even have time to be indignant—Richie is scrambling onto his feet right as one of Pennywise’s pincers slices through the air, crashing through solid rock.

“Jesus!” Eddie screams. Richie’s grips his hand, hauling him up, tugging him into a gust of frantic movement. Eddie’s tired, so tired, to the point he can barely distinguish anything ahead of him except a blur of earth and Richie’s flailing arms. Something primal within him wants to shut down, to put an end to this decades-long nightmare. 

But the callused hand in his grounds him. As long as it’s there, he’ll know where he is—and he’ll keep running forward. 

Richie doesn’t let go when they tuck themselves into a temporary haven with the others; doesn’t let go when Eddie perks up, remembering: “I made him _ small._” When they creep back out into that blinding, open cavern and Eddie’s nerves begin to fray, Richie squeezes his hand tighter, mooring him.

They crush Pennywise’s shrivelled heart together, fingers overlapping. Only then does Eddie notice the blood dripping from Richie’s hand onto his own, trailing from a long gash in his forearm. The pincer had nicked him. A sudden and inappropriate memory: the taste of Richie’s blood in his mouth. “Rich, you’re hurt! We have to—the hospital, we gotta get you—”

“No, I’m okay,” Richie says, chest heaving. As unexpected as summer rain, his face splits into a wide grin. “I’m really, really okay.”

*

The Town House ends up being closer than the hospital. Mike and Ben carry Richie over to the bar and tear off his jacket, his outer shirt.

“Alright everyone, give me space,” Eddie says, all business. He hoists up a bottle of whiskey. “I gotta disinfect the wound.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Richie is blabbering. He throws his arms out defensively, which only splits the gash open wider. “_Christ on a tortilla."_

“You’re always saying you’ve got the biggest balls here,” Bill says, curling a bracing hand around Richie’s knee. “Let’s see em, man.” 

“Funny, that’s what Eddie’s mom—”

Eddie pours the whiskey on Richie’s cut. Richie jerks violently, fisting a hand around Eddie’s shirt collar like he’s about to choke him to death. The stream of expletives that come next are so colorful, so detailed and bloody, that Eddie knows not to take anything personally.

“Is it over? Are we done?” Eddie asks.

“No, it’s not _over. _I’m leaking to death here, jerkoff.”

Richie looks so frazzled, his hair matted with mud and his glasses hanging off his nose, that Eddie starts to laugh—a full-throated, winded one that he hasn’t been able to access since their woozy reunion at the Chinese joint. It’s infectious: Mike, Bev and Bill begin to turn away, so Richie can’t see them smirking at his pain.

“You’re doing so well, honey,” Ben says, in his best gravelly Hot Dad voice, clapping a hand around Rich’s shoulder. This seems to startle a giggle out of Bev—and soon everyone is cracking up, holding their sides. 

“Bullies. Every single one of you,” Richie says, even though he’s starting to grin. “You bullied that clown to his grave, now you’re gonna bully an invalid—fuckin’ sadists.”

The thought of Pennywise dead, of it all being over, is both hysterical and simple all at once. 

Eddie recovers quick, rummaging in his First Aid bag for the selection of suture threads, as Richie polishes off half the whiskey bottle. As Eddie gets to work, stitching up skin with a practised hand, it’s surprisingly drama free—Rich only grimaces every now and then, white knuckles gripped in both of Bev’s hands. 

As Eddie weaves the thread in and out, one hand braced against Richie’s chest, he distantly realizes that his wedding ring has slipped off, lost forever to the underground.

_Myra. _His wife. Shamefully, he hasn’t thought of her once in the past three days. By now, she’s probably reported him missing, or told all his co-workers he’s dead. He wonders if his phone has exploded from the amount of texts she’s sent, warning him of blood-borne and air-borne diseases in Maine. 

He wonders if any of her texts suggest they should get a divorce—in his dizzy, post-near-death-experience state, maybe he even _ hopes _for this.

Eddie ties the last knot and Richie says: “Terrific work, Dr K,” in a perfect English accent, sounding breathless and grateful.

*

The noon sun pounds through the open blinds. It’s a fresh morning. But all anyone can think about is passing out for several eons. They all take showers. They change into their pyjamas. They linger awkwardly in the corridor before wordlessly piling into Richie’s room, ignoring his half-hearted protests.

“None of you are getting on my bed or I _ will _roll over and squash you,” Richie says, but Bill is already flopping onto it with a deep, satisfied groan. “Nothing will scare me again after today, not even your Sasquatch bod,” he says breezily.

The heavy curtains are pulled shut, cloaking the room in shadow. Ben and Bev are cuddled up in a corner on the floor with pillows and blankets they’ve dragged over from their own rooms. On the couch, Mike is out cold and lightly snoring. Richie and Eddie are the only two left standing—they can’t quite look at each other, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot.

“I think I’ll just—go back to my own—”

“Get in the sack, Kaspbrak,” Richie yawns, making a big show out stretching his arms and climbing next to Bill. He scoots over a little, so there’s the tiniest sliver of space.

Eddie, feelings his ears redden, clambers onto the bed, making sure to elbow Richie in the side, injury be damned. He ends up too close to Richie’s holey, toothpaste-splotched shirt, one that reads: “TRASHMOUTH: NATIONAL TOUR.” 

He snorts. “Dude, are you seriously wearing your own merch?”

“Yeah, asshole, I get them in bulk. What am I supposed to do with the leftovers?” 

“Afflict them on some unlucky homeless people? I can’t believe you’re wearing something with your own face on it.” 

“I’m a celebrity with millions of adoring fans, it’s allowed.”

“It’s not allowed,” Bev says and Richie shoots back: “Fine then, it’s _ ironic._” 

Eddie can feel the rumble of Richie’s chest as he talks, can smell his cheap citrus shampoo mingled with traces of the whiskey. His hair looks annoyingly soft. Eddie tries to focus on the ladder of tiny stitches trailing down his bicep but it only makes whatever he’s feeling ten times worse.

There’s a sudden need to open his mouth and say something earnest, but all he manages to get out is: “Take your glasses off, stupid. You’ll crack em even more.”

“Mmmm, do it for me,” Richie says, drowsy. He closes his eyes and shuffles closer to Eddie. “I’m grievously injured.”

As he begins to release clunking snores, Eddie thinks about how Rich almost _ died _ today. Thrice. Distantly, it occurs to Eddie that he would’ve been dust too if he hadn’t been pushed out of the way. He’d tried to ask Richie about it when they stumbled back from Neibolt (how he’d reacted so quickly, like he’d _ known _ what was coming) but Rich had shut down, mumbling indistinctly about the deadlights before going unusually quiet. 

Eddie dropped it. All that matters is that he trusts Richie with his life—something he barely trusts _ himself _with—and always has. They’ve only been reunited for a few days but the trust between all of them is a vibrant, living thing. The feeling is too big for him to process: how did he get through so many years of his life, not remembering something like that?

He’s in the middle of sliding off Richie’s glasses when he sees that Bill is still awake, watching him. “Didn’t mean to spook you, Eds,” he says and Eddie curses his traitorous face. “How you feelin’?”

“Oh, I’m doing great. My cheek is scabbing over and I’m sixty percent sure I won’t get trachoma. Actually, maybe even seventy percent sure, because I made sure not to get too much greywater in my eyes this time—”

“Eddie, listen,” Bill says, his voice firm, stutter gone. Fondness and pain seem to war on his face. “I wanted to say that I’m sorry. About the way I blew up at you back there. That was—that was fucked up.”

“Bill, you don’t have to explain—”

“But I do, I really do. It was all me, y’know? I was so angry at myself, for dragging you all in there, _ again_, and I took it out on you—because I knew you’d let me.”

Eddie tries to make out Bill’s features in the gloom. Looking at Bill when they were kids was like looking at a star; when he spoke, everyone listened, when he laughed, everyone paused to bask in the sound. Only now does Eddie remember how human Bill was underneath it all—the way his chin quivered when Bowers mocked the way he spoke, how he used to get pink and embarrassed when Georgie crooned “can I come play too, Billy?”

Eddie sees it all: his pettiness, his guilt, his fear. “I get it, okay? More than anyone. You were scared.”

“I was scared,” Bill echoes, “and I forgot that I didn’t need to be. You were always taking care of us, Eddie. Making sure I was eating the right vitamins, helping me with those word exercises. I feel like—I kinda lost myself for a while. Without you all there to tell me what an ass I can be.” 

“Well, I’m here now. And I’m telling you that, sometimes, you’re a major asshole,” Eddie says and Bill chuckles softly. “But mostly—I think we’d all walk into another sewer for you in a second.”

They smile wearily at each other, falling silent, as Richie drools between them. There’s a feeling that there should be something more here, some feeling of triumph that Eddie can’t access. 

Sure, they’ve killed an ancient, bloodthirsty monster together. But when they wake up, pack their bags and catch red eyes all the way back to the lives they’d built without each other—what then?

*

Some of the fragments knocking around in his head don’t seem quite real. It’s normal, totally normal, for any 40-year-old to have a spotty memory of childhood. But the knowledge is little comfort: when has anything in Eddie’s life been normal?

What he remembers is this: Derry as dusk, the Cougar parked outside his house, spewing up toxic fumes. In this dreamscape, his mom is immaterial—he walks straight out the door, down the steps and into Richie’s car. “Gimmie some skin,” Rich grins, and they do their handshake, fingers and palms fitting perfectly together, as the engine rumbles to life and catapults them into the endless evening. 

Maybe they go to the local burger joint, where Richie recounts cling-wrapping the school toilet seats as prank, hot sauce dripping from his fingers. Or maybe they lie listlessly on the hood for hours, parked out near the baseball field behind Kansas Street, smoking stolen blunts and coughing up a storm. In one memory, they’re climbing the Standpipe, hands grasping corroded rungs as they try to reach the water tower. When Richie hits the top first, he calls: “I’m gonna die of old age before you get up here, gramps.”

“Eat me raw, fuckface!”

“Through a Flavor Straw!” Richie’s laugh carries in the vortexes of cold wind, so goofy and _ right _that, for a moment, Eddie forgets to be afraid at all.

Then, night is melting into day and the Losers are outside Richie’s house; huddled together and oozing tears as Mrs Tozier sighs: “Five minutes, baby.” Stan is holding up the words “GUD RIDANCE TRASHMOUTH,” arranged on their communal Bite-Rite, multi-colored tiles bouncing in his arms as he tries to suppress his watery hiccups. This fragment seems more surreal than the others—when Eddie stands in front of Richie, they can’t manage to say a single word to each other, which can’t possibly be true. 

Eddie stares at the bruised crown of Richie’s nose, taped down with a makeshift Power Rangers Band-Aid; stares at the way Richie is biting his lip so hard he draws blood. It’s not until Richie folds him into his freakishly long arms that Eddie realizes how hard he’s been trembling.

*

“Eds, Eds, it’s okay.” Steady hands grasp his thrashing arms. “I’ve got you—you’re good.”

Blinking moisture from his eyes, Eddie makes out the dark shape of Richie’s shoulders, the sharp angles of his face. Eddie’s bandage has unpeeled slightly—before he can lift his hand, Richie’s thumb is smoothing it down, slightly grazing his dimple. Eddie doesn’t think; he balls his hands up in Richie’s shirt and anchors himself. On his finger, Eddie can see the white band of skin where his ring used to be.

“Thanks, Rich,” he says, voice hoarse. On the other side of the bed, Bill is still completely unconscious.

“Bad dream?” Richie asks, hands moving to Eddie’s waist. “Me too, I was dreaming about—

“If you say my mom’s toe gunk I’m gonna knee you in the nuts.”

“—the time I tried to call you once in college.”

“Oh.” Eddie feels like there’s a canyon at the centre of his chest, cleaving itself wider.

“Yeah, _ oh,” _ Richie mocks, but there’s no heat. “I got drunk at a kegger one weekend and, on the way home, it was suddenly the _ most _ important thing in the world to find a pay phone, stat. I uh—got to one, dialled your old house, your mom picked up. Didn’t know who the fuck she was or why I was even calling. Then, I puked. What a night.” Richie ducks his face lower, so Eddie can’t see his expression. “Wow, remember when pay phones were a thing? We’re dinosaurs.”

Eddie doesn’t know what to say. His heart is pounding so hard he can’t even hear his incessant internal monologue. “I never thanked you for saving my skin back there,” he says finally, voice soft. “We were almost chow ‘cause, as usual, I couldn’t shut the fuck up.” 

“Dude, _ what. _You were the one who fuckin’ javelin’d the motherfucker like some kind of Trojan warrior, rescuing my pathetic damsel behind.” 

“Shut up,” Eddie says, feeling himself blush. 

“_You _shut up, okay, it was unbelievably awesome. You’re awesome.” 

Rich is smiling, big and bright and flashing all his teeth. Looking at Richie’s smiles always feel like watching one of those videos of hapless idiots wiping it, then falling down a flight of stairs, then belly-flopping into a pool—despite the dread it makes him feel, Eddie can never look away. In the midst of his dopey staring, he notices Rich wince for a split second—Eddie’s been squeezing his arm, hard, right where the tail of his wound sits. 

“Shit, sorry—”

“No worries, man,” Richie says. “You can touch me all you want.” His eyes comically widen when he registers what he said. “For the record, I did _ not _ mean it that way.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes. None of their conversations ever stay serious; it’s been this way since they were kids. He wonders what it would be like, them talking about _ feelings _and shit, having to put what he feels for Richie into actual words.

Truth is: all he feels is total ease. He thought the years apart would’ve chipped away at that feeling, warped it into something distant and unrecognisable. But lying next to Richie, joking with Richie, touching Richie—it all feels like the most natural thing in the world. Impulsively, he lets go of Richie’s shirt, slides his hands under the hem. He spreads his palms over the hard muscle of Richie's chest, the hair there. 

When Eddie feels brave enough to look at his face, he sees that it’s slack with shock. “Uh, okay, maybe I meant it a little,” Richie says.

Eddie exhales sharply—almost a laugh. “Do you remember the time I broke your nose?” he murmurs.

“Nose? Um, yep. That’s a word,” Richie rambles. “You trying to knock me out—rings a bell. What was all that about?” 

“Better if I show you.” For once in his life, Richie has no response. Without his glasses, he looks weirdly vulnerable, hopeful almost. That—and the knowledge that Richie can’t see him too clearly—is all it takes for Eddie to lean forward and slot their lips together. He’s mindful of Rich’s nose this time, tilting his head with care. 

The care vanishes quickly: Richie is roughly pulling him closer until there’s not an inch between them. They make out sloppily, like inexperienced teens who have never kissed before; so wet, un-coordinated and open-mouthed that their teeth clack together. The friction of Richie’s stubble, the insistent push of his tongue—it drives Eddie completely insane, makes him want more and more.

“You’ve got no idea—no idea how much I—“ Richie is mumbling into his jaw between kisses, but Eddie can’t make out what he’s saying clearly, too busy rubbing up against Richie’s thigh. Both of them forget about each other’s injuries, hands searching frantically for bare skin. 

Eddie realizes how hard they both are, how much he wants to reach between them, when, suddenly, Bill lets out a tremendous snore. Rolling over, he throws an arm around Richie’s waist.

Richie and Eddie jolt apart, freezing. They look down at the offending arm.

Right, Eddie thinks, he was about to come right then and there, with all his childhood friends in spooning distance: what the fuck is wrong with him? He’d laugh if he wasn’t two seconds from having a full blown panic attack. “Rich, I’m sorr—"

“Hey, hey,” Richie hisses quietly, when he clocks Eddie’s expression. “Please don’t be sorry, okay? We can save the freaking out for tomorrow, I promise.”

He notices that Richie is breathing as hard as he is, stunned and flustered. 

“Okay,” Eddie says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. _ Tomorrow. _ He closes his eyes and leans against Richie’s chest, pulling in air, until he hears both their heartbeats settle. “Okay, sure.”

*

After hibernating for twelve straight hours, Eddie cooks them all breakfast at Mike’s creepy Quasimodo library tower. He insists on making the whole thing alone—he’s fussy about others preparing his food on a good day—and regularly smacks Ben away with the spatula whenever he starts hovering good-naturedly. Eddie had pictured Mike eating cup noodles and frozen pizza for the last 27 years like your run-of-the-mill conspiracy theorist, but instead his fridge is surprisingly well-stocked, packed with mushrooms, bacon, rows of eggs, lush bundles of spinach and fresh tomatoes.

Two seconds after he hands everyone their individual plates of scrambled eggs, Richie begins clutching at his throat, gagging.

“Shit, I think he’s actually choking,” Bev says, flapping her arms behind Richie, as if contemplating a Heimlich. For a second, Eddie’s heart seizes in panic; but then Richie starts pointing accusingly at his plate. “Egg—eggshells—Eds trying to kill me—"

“Oh fuck off, dude,” Eddie yelps, indignant, “there is _ no way _ there were eggshells in there, do you even know who fucking I am?”

“Eddie, maybe we should—“ Mike starts.

“I can’t believe you’d even joke about this. You know I take my cooking extremely seriously.” Eddie waves his spatula threateningly in front of Richie’s red face. He’s starting to feel very empowered by this utensil. “If you don’t choke to death in the next ten seconds, get ready for me to shove this up your ass.”

When Bev finally wraps her arms around Rich’s stomach, he deflates into laughter, earning a hard smack on the arm from everyone except Eddie, who folds his arms, furious. “Eds, what if I was seriously dying?” Richie says between chuckles. “That’s cold, man.”

He ignores Richie for the next hour, even when he slings an arm around Eddie’s shoulders and crows about how luscious the eggs are, how the vegetables were sautéed to perfection.

Richie like this, loose and quick to smile, puts him on edge—here Eddie is, freaking the fuck out about A) how he’s officially joined the ranks of pathetic, middle-aged men who cheat on their wives and B) how much he wants to kiss Richie again. Meanwhile, Richie is acting like nothing happened.

Eddie doesn’t know why he expects anything else. Last night, Richie had been injured and drunk and Eddie acted like a total psycho, practically throwing himself at him. Richie had been nice about it and kissed him back because, well, that’s how he always is—stupid, generous, kind. Throughout their whole childhood, he hasn’t given a single indication that he thought of Eddie that way, that he could ever—Eddie slumps onto the table, sighing.

Just when he’s starting to dramatically despair, Richie begins slicing Eddie’s tomatoes into tiny pieces for him, without being asked. “You like ‘em this way, right?” Richie says, when he catches Eddie’s gaze, looking slightly pink. “‘Cause you read some crap in the paper about how a guy in Florida choked to death on a tomato.” 

"It’s not _ crap, _it’s a true story and a horrific way to go.” Eddie stews for a few moments in anger at Richie’s ridiculous, shit-eating grin, before staring hard at the tiny chunks of food on his plate. “Uh. Thanks. For—you know.”

“No worries, man,” Richie says, his smile smaller, more tentative. Under the table, Rich presses closer against him, the heat of their touching thighs short-circuiting every nerve in Eddie’s body. _ You’ve got no idea_, Richie had said last night and Eddie is truly starting to realize how little he knows.

*

It’s Bill, with a mouthful of mushrooms, who suggest they drive to the lake house in the White Mountains, live out the trip they never took in high school. Back then, it hadn’t felt right without Ben, Bev and Richie. “It’s the weekend,” Bill says, chewing loudly, the same way Stan used to say _ it’s summer. _“I think we all deserve to get sunburnt and drunk, away from Derry—right, Mikey?”

Mike gives a pain laughed. “Away from Derry. I can’t even imagine what that’s like, as much as I want to.”

“Then, we’re definitely going,” Ben says, slipping his hand into Bev’s. “Together.”

“Ugh. Considering the shit they’re saying about me on Twitter, listening to you two pork all weekend seems _ less _ painful than heading home.” 

“Richie!” Bev looks affronted.

“No, seriously, look at this.” Richie holds up his phone. Eddie squints at the column of suggested Twitter searches: _ richie tozier crackhead, richie tozier dead, richie tozier depression. _“It’s like two truths, one lie,” Eddie says, dodging a noogie from Richie. 

“So what about it, Eds?” Bill asks. “You in?”

They’re all looking at him, expectant, except Richie, who stares hard at his shoes, hands stuffed in his leather jacket, every part of him communicating that he doesn’t care either way. But Eddie can see him chewing on the inside of his cheek, every nervous mannerism so familiar and transparent that Eddie feels a pang in his chest.

He opens his mouth to say: _ sorry guys, I would love to—really, I would—but we’ve got a big meeting with Conde Nast next week, and my wife is out of her mind with worry _ — _ I really can’t upend my life like this. But let’s keep in touch. _Instead what comes out is: “I need exactly two and a half hours to pack.”

*

They carpool, leaving most of their cars behind in Derry: Bev, Mike and Ben pile into Bill’s BMW, while Eddie struggles with his three separate suitcases, all of which has a very important, distinct, itemised purpose (“Well, when you put it like _ that,"_ Richie laughs).

He’s on the steps of the Town House, counting the amount of antihistamine tablets he has left, when Richie’s douche-y red Mustang glides up in front of him, rims glistening. Richie pops the door open, yells: “Eduardo, _ vamos_!”

They speed through the familiar path through town, past the stores where they used to buy liquorice and chunky fries and chocolate milkshakes, past the swollen water tower where Eddie first realized he wanted to Richie to kiss him. A John Mayer song plays on the radio and Richie screws with all the lyrics so they sound dirtier, making sure to waggle his eyebrows at Eddie, just to annoy him.

When they get to the Kissing Bridge, the car slows and stops. The engine and the music cuts. “What’s wrong?” Eddie asks. Richie looks pale and sweaty, both hands clutching the steering wheel convulsively. Finally, he glances at Eddie, eyes soft.

“Better if I show you,” he says. He unbuckles his seatbelt, throws open the door and starts walking. 

“Hey! Hey, come on, Rich, you can’t just park the car in the middle of the fucking road. What if the sheriff comes by, we could get a fine—” But Eddie is always struggling with his seatbelt, scrambling after him. 

Richie is crouched in front of a swathe of initials, holding a beat-up Swiss Army Knife. The letters he’s re-carving are time-worn and flaking but, miraculously, they’re still _ there, _stark and defiant: R + E. 

Eddie is speechless, eyes wide, the crunch of gravel beneath his feet too loud as he walks closer. Slowly, he reaches down and traces the fresh grooves with his forefinger. 

A miraculous fact: even if they end up forgetting, this bridge won’t.

Eddie clears his throat. “Did you start carving, then get too lazy to add + B + B + B + S + M?”

Richie snorts. “That’s exactly what happened. Dunno why I started with your ungrateful ass,” he says. Eddie offers his hand and Richie takes it, getting up. In the two seconds their hands touch, Eddie thinks he can feel all the older versions of Richie layered over him, translucently, like a stack of film negatives: Richie helping him down from the old elm, Richie cupping his face as Pennywise stalked towards them, the open gash of Richie’s palm, pressing into his own. 

They hop back in the car, leaving the letters far behind them, speeding past the town limits without looking back. It’s almost exactly like one of Eddie’s bizarro dreams: a perfect slice of time where Eddie and Richie are in a ridiculous car together, still terrified, headed someplace new.

**Author's Note:**

> come scream about richie/eddie and bill hader @ me [here!](http://www.planetaire.tumblr.com/ask)


End file.
